Meegan was the most effective assistant that Olga had had in a long time. She was also the most annoying, having come herself from linen napkin stock. Her mother, a client of Olga’s, hadn’t so much asked her to give Meegan a job as threatened to take her business elsewhere if Olga didn’t. Yet, this was not what grated on Olga. No, what bugged Olga was Meegan’s insistent application of kindergarten ethics to every situation and her genuine desire to be around weddings. Indeed, while the former quality had the greatest potential to cause trouble for Olga, it was the latter that incensed her the most. It would be easy to enjoy this profession, Olga felt, if turning a profit weren’t of concern.
Eager to move on, Olga changed the subject. “When does Jan get here? I want to go through the timeline for tonight.”
“He’s not coming,” Meegan said sheepishly. “They are sending Marco instead.”
To handle the mental minutiae of her job and mitigate risk of complaint, Olga, like many in her profession, had established a reliable stable of vendors—caterers, bakers, and the like—on whom she could rely to execute at the scale and level that her clientele demanded. From this roster, after more than a decade in business, she had a list of preferred staffers whom she would request. Jan, the best floor captain for one of the finest caterers in the city, was on her frequent rotation. He was, in many respects, her emotional security blanket for her toughest jobs. His elegant appearance, soothing demeanor, and unplaceable European accent pleased her clients in the front of the house. His first-generation American work ethic coupled with a robust supply of dirty Polish jokes pleased her team in the back of the house. She felt a panic at the thought of facing Mrs. Henderson’s protractor without him.
“What? But I specifically asked for Jan. Marco is fine, but if I ask for Jan, I want Jan here. What reason did they give?”
Meegan cowered. “I actually didn’t ask.”
Olga needn’t say anything, her silent turn on her heel enough to let Meegan know that that was not the right answer. She took out her phone and texted Jan to ask why he was abandoning her and then she dialed Carol, the owner of the catering company, to register her complaint.
“Carol,” she spoke loudly into the phone, to set an example to all the other vendors readying the hotel ballroom for the festivities. “With all the business that I throw your way, I expect you to accommodate my fucking staff requests and at the very least give a bitch a call if you’re going to make a change like this. I really—”
But she had been cut off by Carol’s sobbing. It was all so sudden, she said. Olga dropped the phone. She couldn’t deal with this now. Meegan, sensing something was wrong, was just standing in front of her, with her stupid, na?ve, eager face.
“Jan isn’t coming to work because Jan is dead.”
A POLISH WAKE
Jan’s wake had left Olga even more glum than she’d anticipated. The mourners, gathered at a funeral home in a stucco-faced storefront on a corner of Greenpoint, had revealed Jan’s rigidly segmented double life. On one side of the room, beneath an oversized framed photograph of Pope John Paul II, sat his mother, surrounded by a gaggle of black-clad Polish women who Olga could only assume were his aunts. On the other side, below an oil painting of a Polish pastoral scene, sat Christian and his team of mourners—a group of once and future cater waiters, nearly all gay boys whom Jan and Christian knew from their two decades living together in their Chelsea walk-up.
Observing them, Olga was unsure whom to greet first. She’d never met Jan’s mother before, wasn’t even sure if she and Jan were close. But her own Catholic, outer-borough upbringing had ingrained in her an unspoken ethical code （an ethnical code?） that required deference to mothers, no matter how estranged. The inverse property of “yo mama” jokes. She walked towards the Polish contingent.
“Mrs. Wojcick?” Olga placed her hand on the grieving mother’s shoulder. “My name is Olga; I was a friend of your son’s. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Mrs. Wojcick took Olga’s face in her hands, kissed her cheek, and whispered something in Polish that a younger woman next to her translated.
“She said thank you for coming. She always wanted to meet one of Jan’s girlfriends.”
“Oh no,” Olga said gently. She turned directly to Jan’s mother and, as one instinctively does when bridging a language gap, raised her voice. “Jan and I worked together. He catered some of my parties. I plan weddings. He was very hardworking.”